Consciousness comes in and out for Slime. He is vaguely aware of a warmth on his chest and he feels wet all over. Doesn't he? Truth be told, Slime couldn't tell his ass from his head right now. Everything ran together then split apart in warped patterns, dancing like wild sparks projected on the inside of his eyelids.

Am I Dead?

Maybe. Or close to it.

He concentrates as best he can, tries to move his limbs. Nothing. His tongue is fuzzy, eyes won't open and his nose is so swollen that he can't breath through it. He can though, just barely and only at the furthest periphery of his senses, hear the sea. Waves lapping on sand. Was he back on the ship?

Ship.

The word slams clarity into Slime's twisting brain like an anchor hits bottom. He tries to hold the memory back now but it cuts itself into his thoughts like an executioner's blade.

And he remembers.

Last edited by Slime on December 3rd, 2011, 9:37 pm, edited 4 times in total.

It was a game, Slime was certain. They had played it before but not for years. The crew would sleep in shifts and keep the slaves awake for as long as they could or until they got bored. Days roll into nights, nights into mornings, mornings to days and the cycle continues. Slime had lost track of how long they'd been playing but he was starting to get the worst of it. He could barely hold up his mop and he was certain that the floor would start talking to him any moment. Slime might just welcome a new conversation partner but he'd most likely be bored having a chat with the deck.

“Bored. Board” He mumbles. “Get it? 'Cause the deck is made of wood.”

Great, I'm taking to myself.

And my jokes are getting worse.

Slime picked up the pace, mopping in small, quick circles. He was trying everything to stay awake and it didn't help that a few of the crewman had decided to sleep nearby and a few more had decided to fake it, snoring loudly. One of them stood watch though, always at Least one. But the game was dragging on and the men were getting tired of it.

Almost over, Slime thought. He'd mopped all the way from the stern of the ship to the bow, through every cabin and cranny then back again. Now there was just this place left, the cramped storage room among the crates. There was only one or two men still interested in the game it seemed and soon it would be time for sleep. Sleep; even the word sounded relaxing and his cramped space shoved beneath the decks had never seemed so inviting. The finest siren. Slime managed a calm smile as one crewman went back to the barracks to fall asleep.

“Just you and me now.” The last crewman slurred before fumbling to open a tall, half-empty bottle of liquor. He took a deep drag from it and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “How long you been awake?”

“I don't know, sir.” Slime said, keeping his eye on his work.

“Well, think you could last a few more hours?” He drank again. “I have a wager on it.”

“Yes.”

“What's that you say? Speak up.” The crewman smirked; his eyes dizzy, his nose red and his flask already empty. He wobbled a bit

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah ha! That's how you respect your betters!” He chortled.

Several minutes of silence fell over the two, the only noise being the wet swish-swash of the mop.

“Are you a betting man?” The crewman asks suddenly.

Slime jumps at the sudden conversation. “I don't know sir, I've never had any gold to bet with.”

“I got a bet for you then. One gold says that you can't catch a rat with your teeth.”

Slime stopped mopping but didn't risk eye contact. “What, sir?””

“What's so difficult to understand?” The crewman said, his words were beginning to slur beyond recognition. He patted the leather bag hanging from his belt. “I won enough gold in the last port to start a new life so I'm feeling generous. You win, you get a piece of gold. You lose and you don't pay anything.

“N-no, sir. I just don't think I can. I'm very tired.”

“Bah! Don't sell yourself short. I heard you're a master rat catcher. That you must've been a cat or something in a previous life. Maybe one of those freaky animal-people.”

“I can't catch one with my teeth, sir. I set traps.”

The crewman stands up and glares at Slime who knows that look. The crewman speaks slowly, lets his words burn the air with a quiet, growing fury. “I never asked if you could. I told you to do it. I even offered you some coin if you could. Are you refusing my offer because I don't take refusal well.”

“I wasn't refusing, sir.”

“Then find a rat.”

Slime nearly threw up just imagining the feeling of fur on his tongue, the scratch of flailing legs against his cheeks and the strangled cries of a trapped animal. Rat was the only meat he ever got, unless you counted beetles, and he did eat it raw but he always killed it first. Always.

Another moment of silence passed but without the mop, you could hear it. The rapid scritch-scratch of tiny claws on wood. A rat's claws.

“Quick, quick!” The crewman shouted, pointing hard and nearly falling over. “I just seen it duck behind them crates.”

Slime stood there.

“You didn't hear me? Behind the crates.”

Slime didn't move.

The crewman scowled and drew two broad knives from his belt. “If I have to pin a hand to each side and shove your face back there, I will. Move.”

That was no empty threat and it sent a tremor of fear through Slime who soon found himself, or rather found his body, moving towards the crates stacked higher than Slime was tall. His mind screamed to stop but his feet kept moving. The crewman walked with Slime towards the crates and danced and cheered drunkenly. Slime felt no control over himself, a ship being thrashed in a monsoon. It must be the lack of sleep, the fear, the knowledge, driving his body to disobey him.

It must have been those things too, that caused him to shift the crate stack too fast and watch as it thundered down. Splinters flew in all directions and the crates heavy crates snapped. The noise was tremendous but there was a strange silence to it, something missing.

Screaming, Slime knew. He couldn't see the crewman anywhere and couldn't hear him either. He could though, hear the other men in the barracks above stir. Spilling the crates should've meant trouble from the crewman. The crewman should be yelling, should be beating him but there was nothing. Slime peeked around more. Did the crewman leave? Run out when the boxes fell? He searched a little further.

No.

The crewman's legs stuck out from beneath the pile of fallen crates like a strange puppet. Only from the belt down and a puddle of blood was pooling.

“Oh no.” He mumbled between biting his fingernails. “I killed him, I killed him. What am I going to do?”

Good question. If he stayed he'd die and they found out he'd die. So that's it. He would die horribly tonight. Or worse. The men above were probably already on their way to investigate.

Run? Both the word and thought was strange to Slime. He'd tried it a few times when he was younger but they always caught him and told him, quite clearly, that if he tried again he wouldn't have legs to run away on. But he was alone now. And couldn't hear anyone coming yet. His only guard was dead.

Dead, dead, dead! My fault! Mine! He pulled at his hair.

Stop. Focus.

He tried, boy did Slime try. Something tugged at him though, some foreign emotion that led him to reach his hand slowly so slowly towards the dead man's belt, the small leather bag hanging there. The one the crewman had patted earlier. He grabbed it and slowly took it off the man's belt, ready for his wrist to be grabbed or for a sword to pierce his heart.

The bag was heavy and when Slime opened it, he saw more gold than he'd ever known to even existed. He knew the crewman was bragging about a big win and this must be what he was talking about.

Enough gold to start a new life. He recalled the crewman saying.

What a funny thought. Slime tried to imagine himself somewhere else, standing on one of the shores he's seen in the distance or in one of the towns they so rarely docked at but he couldn't. He wondered how sand would feel under his bare feet, he wondered what it was like to walk a crowded street. Time to find out.

It began in a flash and without his consent, his feet creeping. He was heading out to the deck but without any plan, he was sure to get caught. Besides, what if someone was out there. Not everyone could be asleep.

It seemed that Slime's body had no intentions of listening to his common sense tonight. He soon found his hand of the handle and the sea breeze rolled in thick when he slide the door aside. The night is clear, the ocean is calm. But the men on deck were not.

“What was that noise?” They demanded, standing among the moonlight, swords drawn.

What am I doing? Slime thought has he backed away from the men, leather bag clutched so tight to his chest. They seemed more confused than angry. The strange emotion pulled at Slime again and his back found only the railing of the ship's sides. Nowhere to go and the men were approaching. Slime didn't know what he was doing before he leaned back and cast himself over the railing into the sea.

As the waters swallowed him he realized what the strange emotion was. It was thrill, it was excitement. It was hope.

Last edited by Slime on November 26th, 2011, 1:17 am, edited 3 times in total.

“Idiot.” He mutters finally able to control himself. “Who just throws himself overboard? I deserved death.”

But was it death? Slime didn't think so, at least not anymore. He moved his legs and arms. Something under them, something soft. He lets his eyes flutter open, expecting halfway to find himself swirling through some awful void towards a violent realm of torture and pain. When he opened them though above him was only sky, thick clouds rolling past a midday sun.

He managed roll his head to the side and the soft stuff under him stuck to his cheeks. He was looking down a long stretch of beach, lying in sand. It looked so different than it did from the ship. It was warm and pleasant. Waves lapped silently at his feet and looking down, the water was the purest blue he's ever seen. Beyond that, an empty horizon. An empty sea. Not a ship in sight.

“I'm free.” He said. The sentence poured sweetly from his lips and covered him. He smiled and tears rolled down from his eyes as he said it again. “I'm free.”

And he laughed. He had laughed before; telling himself jokes or funny stories below decks but never before had he laughed so long, so hard or so genuinely. He laughed until he was sore.

Comments: Nice little solo thread, Slime! It was enjoyable to read. The way you wrote how he remembered how he ended up on that beach is particularly nice. Slime's way of talking to himself is a bit disturbing though...I wonder what's going on there! Well, can't see what you do in the future. As for my ruling, cleaning, technically, is not a skill. However, there is no other skill close enough to it, so we'll treat it as one of the skills that haven't been put into the wiki yet and I'll put a little Post-it note down to get one of the Founders to add it in later.